The Swan Maiden (12 page)

Another slap was passing her sisters, comfortably installed in the rose garden. As a troubadour sang for their pleasure, courtiers sipped from silver goblets and nibbled summer fruits. Secure in their position, Azelais and Cecilia didn't have to worry about how their mother would greet them.

Doucette thought she had concealed her unease from the servants' knowing eyes, but her sisters would surely remark on it. She had hurried past the garden gate, hoping to steal by unnoticed. No sooner had she formed the wish than Azelais called out, drawing everyone's attention.

Doucette banished the memory of the other ladies' condescending smiles. Outwardly, Doucette might appear the dutiful daughter, the sober chastelaine, but inside, she had changed. Soon—tonight, even—everyone else would realize it. She would tell them all: Mother, Father, everyone. She would wear her swan skin proudly.

But first she had to find the bee-man.

At the far end of the orchard, he squatted in the dirt, feeding dry twigs to a fire that burned in a large clay dish.

“Om Toumas.”

Two bees alit on Doucette's outstretched hand. She had almost stuck it into one of the wall niches that housed the bee skeps. “Mother wanted me to check on the honey harvest.”

“Oh, aye, Lady Doucette,” the man replied in his rumbling voice. “Move slowly, if you will. They won't sting unless startled. Gently, now, little sisters.”

Gold-furred bees clustered in the man's curly, gray-streaked hair and crawled on his clothing. He brushed a clump of them from his chin. Obediently, they moved to his sleeve.

“You're not afraid?” Doucette asked.

He chuckled. “We have an understanding. ‘Be kind to the bees that you find on your way—'”

“‘Or be stung when you come to the bees' house one day.' I know the saying.” She pointed at the fire in the clay dish. “You'll burn the hives?”

“Not I! Like drowning, it's an evil, wasteful method.”

“Mother recommends it.”

“Oh, aye. Lady Sarpine's not best fond of bees. We won't tell her, eh, little lady?” Om Toumas winked at Doucette. “I could use help, if you're so minded. Anfos offered, but the boy's too excitable—he stirs them up worse than a bear.”

“Certainly.” Doucette knelt beside Om Toumas. A cloud of bees hummed around her ears. While she waited, motionless, for the creatures to get used to her presence, she studied them carefully, fixing in her mind each detail of transparent wing and faceted eye. She hadn't managed her wasp Transformation very well. If she ever wanted to become a bee, she would do better.

Om Toumas watched her stillness with approval. “Wet leaves go on the fire, like so. Push the smoke toward the hive to quiet 'em.” He handed Doucette a linen rag.

“Sleep, sleep, little beauties,” Om Toumas crooned as he pulled the bee skep out of the wall niche. He unlaced the strap that secured the domed straw basket to its round wooden base. After tipping the basket on its side and separating the two parts, the bee-man cut dripping slices of honeycomb from the mass inside. Drowsy bees were brushed off each piece before Om Toumas placed it into a clay jar.

“Try some?” He turned the wooden base, littered with chunks of loose comb.

Doucette popped a piece into her mouth. The honey's rich flavor warmed her tongue, its sweetness flavored with wild thyme. She chewed and chewed until she had sucked out the last drop of honey, then rolled the wax between her fingers to make a ball. She'd keep it to grease her sewing needles.

The thought stirred a pang of chagrin. Maybe she was fated to be a chastelaine, after all. Despite a summer practicing the High Arts, a goodwife's practicalities weren't far from her thoughts. Firmly, Doucette dismissed the idea.

“It's delicious,” she said.

“Spring flavor's more delicate, but nothing like the late-season crop to call up a summer day,” Om Toumas replied.

“You've finished already?” Doucette asked as he tapped a cork into the jar, fitted the bee skep's basket back onto its base, and laced them together. “There's still honey in the hive.”

“Aye. We take only a part, since few bee plants flower after Saint Aude's Day. Got to leave enough for the bees to eat all winter, when they can't make new. Eh, little sisters?”

With a long stick, Om Toumas pushed the clay dish to the next hive and built up the fire again. After shaking a few dazed bees from her skirt, Doucette followed to wave her linen rag at the smoke.

Together, they harvested honeycomb from the other hives into the three waiting jars. When the jars were capped, Om Toumas took Doucette's rag and wiped off the honey that oozed down the sides. “Patris won't appreciate the bees following honey drips to her kitchen.” With a grunt of effort, he hoisted a jar in each arm. “Many thanks for your help, Lady Doucette. I'll return shortly for the other two jars. If you'd put out the fire?”

“I will.”

Stirring from their smoke stupor, bees buzzed around their disturbed homes. Several alit on a honey-drip that Om Toumas had missed. Bee tongues flickered over the jar.

Remembering the man's request, Doucette pushed the clay dish to a sandy spot well away from the hives. She flipped the dish and stirred the coals into the sand with the stick. “Careful lifting the other jars, Om Toumas,” she said to the tall figure walking out from between the almond trees. “They've still got bees on them.”

“Your pardon?”

Doucette's skin went cold with recognition.

The voice that had answered her did not belong to Om Toumas.

Chapter Fifteen

In her surprise, Doucette leaned so hard on her stick that it snapped in two places. She pitched forward, putting her hands out to stop herself. She would have burned them on the sand-covered embers, but, as in her dreams, a man saved her from the fall. Taking a step forward, he grabbed her waist, swung her away from the buried coals, and set her on her feet.

Enfolded in the circle of his arms, Doucette was overwhelmed by a sense of relief. At not being burned, she told herself, sniffing back ridiculous tears. Anyone would be grateful for his quick action. It had nothing to do with the fact that he smelled like she remembered, of sheep and wood smoke and the herbs that grew wild on the hills: thyme, rosemary, mint, sage. His embrace felt as she had imagined it in dreams, strong and tender both, as if she had nothing to fear while he held her. As if all would be well.

But how she must look! Sweet saints. Doucette's hands flew to her mouth. Ashes on her sleeves and her dress stained from the afternoon's forays through dairy, stable, storerooms, kitchen, cellars, and garden.

Annoyance pushed out the pleasure she had felt.

Jaume had a devilish knack for catching her at her worst! Bedraggled and barefoot in the unsuitable dress Cecilia had spelled on her, then naked at the hot pools, and now grimy as a pot boy. What evil genius caused him to appear whenever Doucette least wanted anybody seeing her?

You didn't mind Om Toumas,
a voice whispered in her mind.

But this—this shepherd—

Her rescuer released her and took a step back. Doucette breathed deeply. She had learned, hadn't she? This time, she would be polite but remote, as befitted a sorceress. She turned and inclined her head. “Jaume.”

“Lady Doucette!” Recognition lit the dark eyes as the shepherd dropped to one knee.

“Get up,” she said, hurt despite her resolve. “No need to mock me further. I'm well aware that you find me amusing.”

“Amusing?” Jaume regarded her gravely. “Oh, aye. Don't forget amazing, adorable, alluring. That's for A. Would you like to hear B? Beloved, bewitching.…” He stood and smiled. His hand lifted, but Doucette turned her chin before he could touch her face.

“Stop it.” She would have walked away but for the crook that dropped to bar her path. She stared at it, then at him. “Let me pass.”

“Please, Doucette,” Jaume said, “hear me out.”

The tenderness in his voice was her undoing. She collapsed onto a stone bench and twisted her hands in her skirts. She had made a fool of herself once already. This time he would have to speak first.

“I'm sorry for laughing, at the pools,” Jaume said. “For the misunderstanding when we parted—I should have explained I was laughing at myself, not at you. And then you were gone.…” The words came out as if they had been fermenting inside him during the months they had been apart and he must speak them or explode. “I would never hurt you.”

Doucette flexed her toes in their sturdy leather shoes. She remembered Jaume's hand closing around her ankle, how carefully he had bathed her battered feet. How cherished she had felt in his arms.

Jaume took her silence for encouragement. “I saw you, you know, in your swan shape, gliding out of the sky that night, and wished, as you might wish on a falling star. I almost ruined my wish come true by calling my brothers. And then I did spoil it by offending you. Later, I was afraid that it had been a dream, or a nightmare, and that you'd fly to someone else and never speak to me again.” He knelt before her, leaning on the crook. “You wouldn't be so cruel?”

Doucette looked into the brown eyes so close to hers and felt a rush of warmth. He was telling the truth. He did care for her. She was so relieved, she said the first thing that popped into her head. “Where are your dogs?”

Jaume scratched his neck, looking as if he had expected a different question. “They're at home, with the sheep.”

“If your flock's in Donsatrelle, what brings you to Beloc?”

“A matter left unfinished.”

“Business?”

He chuckled. “Oh, aye.”

Disappointment flooded her, until Jaume's next words dispelled it.

“A most pressing matter with the comte's family,” Jaume leaned forward and continued softly, as if the bees might overhear and gossip. “His youngest daughter, in fact. Last time we met, I asked for her hand. She's not answered, and I want to know.”

“Oh, Jaume.” Doucette sighed at the sentiment, as touching as it was impossible. “Swan maidens don't marry.”

“Why not?”

“It never ends well.” Doucette remembered the most recent example. “Tante Mahalt's husband died.”

“Other people aren't us.” Jaume's jaw set in a stubborn line. “Did I take your swan skin when I had the chance?”

“No,” Doucette admitted.

“Would you leave your husband for no reason?”

“No.”

“You see?” Jaume spread his hands wide. “If we married, I wouldn't give you a reason.”

“My parents want me to wed a nobleman. They'll cut off my inheritance,” Doucette warned.

“We're not lords and ladies, but my family lives comfortably in Vent'roux town.” For the first time, Jaume's certainty faltered. “I know you were to be a chastelaine. Would you miss the court so much?”

“Miss it?” She thought of escaping from the servants' bossing, the courtiers' indifference, and a chastelaine's endless responsibilities to live cozily with Jaume. “No. But my parents would never agree.”

“They can't keep a sorceress against her will.” Jaume took Doucette's hands. He turned her palms up and traced the edges, his touch feather-light. “I think we would suit very well. If I'm not too selfish, wanting to be your husband, not just your country lover.”

Doucette could feel herself blushing. He thought that she would use him and discard him, as her sisters did their men?

Growing up in ignorance of her swan skin, Doucette had assumed she would marry for duty, as most noblewomen did. Her own honor, at the least, would demand she remain faithful to her husband whether she liked him or not.

If she married for love, could she promise less?

Was
it love, what she felt for Jaume? This breathless thrill in his presence, the longing dreams when they parted? She thought so. But had he considered all it meant, to marry a sorceress? “Magic frightens some men,” she said.

“Oh, aye. Transformation, Animation—uncanny, what they do. But all these years I've known you, Doucette, I never heard an unkind word cross your lips. Has finding a pretty pair of wings changed your nature?”

Doucette thought of Tante Mahalt's warnings. “I don't know,” she said honestly.

“I'll ask your parents straight out for your hand. I'm not afraid of their refusal, love. Yours is the answer that counts. What say you?”

The blood buzzed in Doucette's ears. Like magic, happiness washed through her, leaving her tongue-tied and breathless.

Patiently, Jaume waited. The afternoon light gilded his skin and hair until he, too, glowed. In the orchard's hushed silence, it seemed that the almond trees, the honeybees, even the setting sun stilled in the sky to hear her response.

“Yes,” Doucette breathed.

His face alight, Jaume pulled her close and rained kisses on her lips, her cheeks, the tip of her nose, her eyelids.

Laughing, Doucette returned his embrace.

“Cousin!”

At the sound of the servant's voice, Doucette and Jaume sprang apart, grinning foolishly at each other.

“Toumas!” Jaume returned the older man's greeting. “The gate guard said I'd find you with the bees.”

Doucette disciplined her expression, though she felt like dancing, like singing, like Transforming gravel into flowers and jewels and scattering them through the streets of town so everyone would be as glad as she was.

Om Toumas slapped the younger man on the shoulder. “Give me a hand, won't you? Those last two pots weighed heavier every step.” He turned to Doucette. “This young fellow's not bothering you, little lady? I'm sure he meant no disrespect.”

Jaume bowed elaborately. “I meant exactly what I said, Lady. How would you have me show it?”

Doucette curtsied deeply in return, teasing him. “There's no court fool at present. Perhaps you'll apply for the post.”